


Within Us

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: Kinktober 2020 [7]
Category: Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Blood and Gore, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Exhibitionism, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Non-Human Genitalia, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Possession, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Teeth, Teratophilia, Tongue Fucking, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Vore, Xenophilia, lots of drool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26878978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: Morgan has been eager to let Thorne unzip her white decontamination suit, stroke her in all those tender places, right up until she saw Abraham get a chunk bitten out of his torso. So, why does she struggle when the Imposter wants inside? All they want is a taste… and maybe more...A/N: Day 8 of Kinktober! Kink: Tentacle/Non-Genital Penetration. Yup. Here we are. I have actually jumped on this bandwagon and written Among Us smut. I regret nothing... though I do blame several people.
Relationships: Crewmate/Impostor (Among Us)
Series: Kinktober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958581
Comments: 25
Kudos: 300





	Within Us

It's quiet in Admin. Perhaps too much so for the current circumstances. Morgan startles easily now even if it weren't for the silence, and even though the footsteps behind her turn out to be Thorne's, the urge to throw up her arms in defense is still there. 

His body language doesn't appear to take her caution personally; in fact, the way he strides towards her console suggests quite the opposite. He's darkness in clean tinted glass, micro-weaved canvas, and leather, which would appear the perfect attire for an imposter, but it's this obviousness that helps his case, this and  _ the thing _ he's most likely here for.

Morgan watches Thorne out the corner of her eye as he moves purposefully into Administration. The standard weighted-safety belt they all wear is gone.  _ Nothing all that suspicious _ , she thinks, perhaps too focused on the lank bulk of his hips and that semi-hardness rising near his groin. 

"I've finished my tasks," he answers despite forgetting if and when she asked him anything. His tone seems more uneven than usual - more rough and cavernous. For whatever reason, Morgan likes the scratchy baritone more so than the chocolate-rumble he usually moistens her with. Hushed octaves and growling breaths are common with him, especially when they're both alone. However, there's a rattle in his throat as he gets closer, almost a hum but much too broken. It's nearly… alien. Not something that triggers any real concern, at least… and if it does… it doesn't last... 

Even before she can finish inputting the code on the oxygen panel, his arms are around her. His black gloves unzip her white uniform from behind, peeling apart the panels to clutch a pert breast concealed within a paper-thin SkNSuit. The sheer thermal webbing does little to protect from the crude, desperate nipple pinches and twists… neither the possessive squeeze that heats up an already luxuriously hot body. This will only be the third time she's fooled around with Thorne on duty. A fair few times between tasks, they've whispered dirty promises, and he's followed through on several, but he's never let her follow up on her own - never let her touch him more than a palm-stroke over the thick thing he hides below his belt. Each time with him has been better than the last, so she expects the same now. 

Morgan's body is dripping with anticipation already. Like Pavlov's dog, he triggers an instant reaction for something tasty.

"I smelled you all the way in Weapons," his statement rattles with rich smoke. 

With a rubber-clad thumb crushed against her navel, he continues grimly, "You tease me. Couldn't wait to finish calibrating so I could come down here… find you. Should I taste you this time? Lick you clean?"

Morgan feels like she's suffocating, despite oxygen flashing between one-hundred and ninety-nine percent efficiency. It's too dangerous right now given the imposter lurking in the shadows, though the way he asks, almost a threat, floods the crotch of her suit with moisture.

"Not yet then…" he responds to his own question, voice still tainted with that alien-like quiver beneath his usual dark rasp. 

She feels evil rejecting his further advances, but Morgan wants to wait until the imposter is found and dealt with before letting him do as he pleases. Anything that could compromise their ability to run or fight back should would be a mistake. Besides, she intends to return the gesture of third-base when she can. Morgan wants to part peel his suit open like he's done hers and lick the sweat from his navel to his cock. She wants to pop her jaw around his girth and let him fuck her throat in Storage, where the gravity is low enough to make the inevitable fucking that much more thrilling. 

As far as she can gather, all he wants is to strike when she's alone, work her cunt into a slick mess until she cums, then leave her to her workload a little happier and a little more smitten. It's probably some alpha male bullshit. An ego booster. Something to brag about later when they dock for leave. Whatever it is, she leans into it because before it was boredom killing her, now it's something else, and she could be next. Might as well take some pleasure where she can. 

Besides, no one has ever fingered her as good as a dick could fuck her, yet Thorne can and does. Already he's found his way between the folds of her SkNSuit and further in between slicker, softer folds.

She's close, and it's only been a minute.

"F'fuck, c-can you go a little… deeper?" Voice labored, she opens her thighs and bends forward enough her glass-plated visor thunks against the green-glowing monitor. One gloved-finger becomes two with a blistering stretch and following hiss.

"Mmm, like this?" His large digits spear down and up. Suddenly, three thick fingers fill her cunt, pumping in and out, hitting that cluster of nerve endings like someone slamming down on an emergency switch. 

"... y-yes… just like that…"

A nearly inhuman chuckle resounds inside his helmet… no, not his helmet… his chest - his abdomen. The oscillations shake into Morgan's backbone as his other hand leaves her aching breast - nipple throbbing - to trap her slippery clit between two gloved-fingers and roll it tightly, firmly. 

Morgan tips her head backward until the hard lip of her helmet seal stops her from craning any further back. In that arched position of ecstasy, nothing else matters. She braces for the crescendo. It's there - an orgasm - growing on the tips of his fingers, surging into a compact expanse of-

"Crewmate Thorne!" Comes Lawson's authoritative voice from around the corner, out of sight but so close, it's immediately horrifying.

Thorne doesn't pull his fingers from her cunt despite the way she sucks in a shocking breath, startling noiselessly off the precipice. He hooks deep within and presses his hips into her backside, pushing her up hard against the console. Morgan understands instantly, biting her tongue while Thorne does one hell of an excellent job blocking Lawson from seeing her stuffed against the oxygen terminal. With a little help from a jutting filing cabinet, she's reasonably invisible. To Lawson, it's only Thorne in here, working tirelessly to keep their O2 free and clear of any rerouted sabotage.

"Lawson," Thorne returns, pulling fingers off her clit to press against the edge of a bulky keypad. Thanks to the green vibrancy coming off the monitor, her slick fluids are evident over his black, rubber fingers. It's lewd in its own right, but abruptly… he begins finger fucking her again, gradual and firm.

"Where were you ten minutes ago?"

"Finishing my last task in Electrical… pigtailing wires from communications to security," it comes out dull as if he isn't rapping that raw bundle just shy of her cervix. "Before you ask, No. I haven't seen Morgan." 

"Suspicious," Lawson responds skeptically, "Anyone else? Porter and Wood are missing."

Morgan breathes through the pleasure, just like she learned to breathe through the sick delirium during reduced-gravity training. This should be easy… yet, sweat beads on her brow as that lapping weight - soaked and sticky - expands. She's going to cum… fuck, she can stop it... but she tries...

"Haven't seen them," Thorne shrugs, jostling her cunt muscles, fingers slotting deeper, harder against that dripping spot, "... but, I saw Abraham coming from the engine room towards storage on my way here."

"To storage?"

Morgan can feel his nod through his chest and the tickle of his humming confirmation against and within. She can sense other things too, like that gurgling rumble that's not right and something like a heartbeat but not quite the tempo of her own. 

She listens, seconds from cumming around his quick stabbing fingers - quietly squelching with each plunge - until Lawson's footsteps recede. 

Thorne's passion is immediate as soon as the coast is clear, probably even before it's safe. He snarls, a sound half-seated somewhere below his stomach where his hips plaster to her ass. 

Morgan whimpers as he snatches a breast tightly, kicks her right ankle out, and uses the given vantage to curl his palm further beneath her cunt. His fingers fuck violently, almost too much for how close she was with Lawson hanging in the doorway. Hard contractions drink around his fingers as Morgan lets herself be suffocated over the console, quivering in the loud panting awe of an orgasm. 

"I… I'm-" Morgan hesitates to catch a gulp of air, but merely keeps moaning instead. The deep chuckle tells her he already knows he's gotten what he wants. But so has she, at least for now.

While he growls with glee, Morgan concentrates on her breath as euphoria lingers. Thorne's fingers stroke and curl that cluster inside until she's trickling into his palm, quivering and sweltering through her SkNSuit, uncertain how far his touch actually goes.

Before she can gather herself, he's already readjusting the flap of her thermal layer, then meticulously zipping her back up. A quick and efficient break from the strenuous tasks while everyone is on high alert, she realizes. A rubber thumb scrapes her covered belly in something far too intimate for a simple guilty pleasure here and there. It's more than possessive, but a better label escapes her right now, like much else except the afterglow.

Morgan shivers all the harder when his helmet raps against the back of hers. One day, they'll do this without all the gear in the way - without all the layers and distractions. 

Deep, almost forebodingly, he says, "I'll let you finish up here, I've got some things to take care of."

Still wrapped around her back, Thorne gives her stomach a soft pat, touch slipping away in that way he does, which makes her melt just a tad. He's got no right having such power over her like this, but it's impossible not to smile.

_ Hang on... _

"Wait, didn't you say you were done with-" 

He's vanished by the time Morgan turns around, leaving behind an unusual chill of trepidation despite the inebriation from her ripping orgasm. The proof of it is still staining her heated SkNSuit, but the moderately annoying stick of fabric is well worth the elation in an otherwise anxious situation. Even the tremendous drone of ship innards doesn't divert her from completing one last line of code, preserving what has been - as far as Morgan can determine - an uncompromised O2 system. 

_ Let's hope it stays that way, _ she muses quietly, logging out of her profile with a yellow-chime and stand-by screensaver.

Once checking off maintenance in O2, her wrist monitor directs her to the Medbay, where she's due for a habitable scan, a responsibility she's saved for the end of her rounds. There's something about how it fizzles Morgan's nerves that's bothersome, much like a jolt from eating electrical wires or bathing in static electricity. Thankfully, with the climax-cocktail rushing through her like toasted hydromorphone, it might not be so bad, and if it isn't, she'll have another thing to thank Thorne for when, and if, they both survive this venture.

Expansive space travel was deemed safe these days… but clearly, few took the lessons learned in Antarctica seriously. Cabin fever yielded violence all around them, and someone - anyone - could be the imposter among them. The idea is repulsive, disturbing at its core, but the concept doesn't surprise Morgan as much as it should. She's always surmised something like this could happen. All she can say is, she's grateful for the daily dose of beta-blockers in her breakfast slurry - thankful that they work as well as they do. 

Traversing the cold, empty hallways - red-blinking camera lenses watching - is a walk through a grove of tulips compared to what it should be. Of course, she did just cum… which might have something to do with the smile she wears beneath the helmet. Combined with the metoprolol and that's a marriage of bliss.

Elatedly, she walks into Cafeteria, ignorant of the gore-splatter towards the end of the room near the access vents. It's what's left of Porter, but she doesn't know that and won't until much later when that knowledge is unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Instead of taking a left past a cluttered table, still littered with their evening meal, Morgan sets a chart straight ahead with her blinders on.

Before she can even set foot past the threshold into Medbay, a clatter echoes past the closed doors. With a shuck and hiss, the overlapping blaster doors open again, allowing a specimen jar to roll slowly out into the hallway.

"H-hello?"

Donned in blood-stained blue, Abraham appears in the doorway with only part of his abdominal wall intact. The rest of him trembles like an earthy detritus getting jettisoned into space. Gaping in horror, Morgan watches in utter silence. Each corpse-like stumble allows added fluorescent light to glide through more missing meat than she expected at an initial glimpse. Squelching steps track red boot prints across the ship's freshly polished floor. He keens - a sound like wet razors tumble drying in the sanitizer bay. One throbbing, oily rope of intestine unwinds from tight pelvic muscle, snagging momentarily in the lip of his crewman attire, before falling with a smack between his feet.

Crewmate Abraham pitches forward as she steps backward, watching through her glass-plated visor as the horror of his fast-approaching mortality dawns on him. His faceplate is marred in black streaks and splatters of gore. 

A whimper leaks out her mouth into the confines of her helmet. It's this sound that suddenly paralyzes him. A low, questioning moan says everything. What feels like an eternity is only mere seconds. She knows this thanks to the entry light above Medical only now going solid. 

"Abraham," Morgan gasps aloud, jumping back as he drops to his knees, upending several knotted bundles of guts that slop before him, connective tissue from his organs to his emptying cavity drawing him the rest of the way. With a thud, Abraham collapses to the floor, either dead or nearly there. Either way, the shock of such bodily trauma would be enough to dim the lights - a merciful thing she hopes.

Someplace falling by the scanner, a darkness skitters, bumps a wall, and races on dozens of legs into recessed shadow. Metal writhes against metal - the screech of it grating. A tremendous booming slam of noise explodes into the ship and... just like that... who or-or what killed Abraham is gone. It's scurried off into the vents. It's there and everywhere now. It has to be, Morgan thinks, only partially aware of her surroundings, thanks to hysteria nullifying her primary functions. This is not the first body she's stumbled across, but there's something instantly traumatic about witnessing it up so close - so close that Abraham only now lets out the gasses in his body while death descends within, turning him into a warm corpse.

Morgan reverses away gradually, spooked by the swift smell of soiled clothes, copiously spreading blood and whatever bile bursts from his gut. So dulled by the scene, and deaf to all but the thick churn of her heart and the low rumble of the ship's own lifeline, that she doesn't hear Lawson rushing in from Main Reactor. He slams into her, grabbing Morgan around the middle as if to injure, but he doesn't. 

His visor crashes into the seal around her helmet, but even that knock of noise is a mere murmur until he's got her facing him, shaking her back into vibrating consciousness. Plucked fresh from what she just witnessed, Morgan flounders and screams, slapping away his hands from her shoulders. All she can see is the slithering - that toothsome greed and-

"Get a fucking hold of yourself, Morgan!" The words bounce off her faceplate, leaving her gasping in horror at Lawson's aubergine helmet. 

Lawson clutches her in another unyielding grip and shakes her from this new reeking daymare. The throes barely rip her from such existential horror, but a sudden loud, bone-chilling blare of an imminent reactor meltdown does. Instantly, she quells her wild shrieks, realizing the scope of reality. 

Muscle memory kicks in, though it feels like she's still screaming, tinnitus ringing in her eardrums. 

Morgan stares, wild-eyed and sweaty underneath the decontamination suit. She follows Lawson to the reactor core on knees that barely work. Abraham's stench fades with every step, lingering only in her memories. Later, she'll have time for vengeance, she tells herself, though the actuality of that is that she won't.

Static interference interrupts the emergency siren, but the yellow flashing red lights are grim warnings as the access codes flow from her fingertips into the keypad. Two scans, one Morgan's and one of Lawson's, returns the Reactor to its everyday orchid radiance.

The palm reader didn't deny him. Lawson can't be the imposter, Morgan reassures herself of it, not so much because it's an accurate way to ascertain he's not a threat, but because she needs something - someone - to trust even if the evidence is wanting. 

Seconds after the last echoes of the alarm system have evaporated, the Reactor doors close. The abrasive noise of two twin slabs of reinforced steel joining so forcefully rattles more than nerves in her belly. Bile likewise rises, painting the spine of her throat with pulsing nausea. Someone else is here, but it's not living. It's nearly like the residual stain of a memory or a ghost… yet behind that door, something tells her the imposter waits… patiently… but starving...

Crawling terror rises as heavy footfalls grow behind the closed door. There's no way out of here, and whatever malfunction or presence that locked the doors won't last. The time is counting down. Morgan knows beyond a shadow that whoever is behind that door is the one that took a fatal chunk out of Abraham.

"Where's Porter and Woods. W-when did you last see them?" She asks Lawson as a lively tapping begins against the opposite side of the door. She looked him up and down, finding something of stark contrast to his otherwise colorful ensemble.

"I don't-"

"There!" Morgan points, unable to stop the accusation from entering her piercing tone, "What's that on your suit?!" 

Without the emergency lights covering it up and most of her faculties back online, she finally sees the broad swath of darkness infiltrating his mauve-purple weave. A portion of the bloodstain is cloudy as if he tried to wash it off at some point but was interrupted. 

Lawson flounders behind his visor, no longer innocent of suspicion, but… he hasn't devoured her yet. Unless... unless he's too full to split open in whatever caused what she saw on Abraham's missing abdomen. Maybe Lawson is too tired to chomp her in half - too exhausted to sever her spinal column or slurp down vertebral fluids.

She'll never know for sure because the Reactor doors open as he's coming up with explanations. 

On the other side, ever towering and wide in the shoulders, Thorne's sinister silhouette casts a significant shadow over the floor before her and Lawson. Morgan blinks behind shaded glass and her own glowing confusion. He's bordered by dim mechanisms bleeping on the hallway wall at his back, nearly imperceptible until he takes a decisive step forward into the light of a hundred reactor bulbs. Red illumination glares off his visor, triggering notions of vague, malicious purpose, but it's  _ Thorne… _ too many times he's had her alone - too many chances to kill her… too eat her...

Morgan cannot place this feeling of dread in her stomach, but by the time an inkling begins to develop into something concrete, Lawson lunges himself at Thorne with a razor. 

"What are you doing!?" Morgan shrieks, too slow to yank Lawson back. 

His knife slices through recycled air, missing Thorne by mere inches. The older man loses his foot, fumbling over his own boots only for Thorne to twist at the waist and tackle Lawson down to the floor.

It all happens so fast - too fast for her to decide where her arms should be or who she has to grab. Her brain doesn't even finish processing what's happening by the time Lawson collapses to the floor, limp at Thorne's boots amidst a long black pool that accumulates below him. It's the lavender brilliance of the reactor core that makes his blood look like that… it's not that he's something else…

Thorne stands high while one of his boots is gradually surrounded in the greasy blood. Lawson's razor blade balances in his rubber-gloved hand, between thumb and forefinger, dripping globs of thicker ichor. Thorne turns at the neck until that ruby sheen glimmers off his faceplate again, hurling a knowing chill down her spine, but... he finally utters demands in a way that begs no question, and Morgan listens.

"Grab his ankles, Morgan. He isn't dead yet…"

"...are we," she swallows, tasting her own sweat as her SkNSuit evaporates it before it can swim against her skin, "... are we jettisoning him? Is he really the imposter? This-this whole time?! We were alone here! There's no way he-"

Calm, deep, and dark, Thorne replies, "They need time to process their last meal before they can kill again. Otherwise, there'd be no point in being covert about it. Whatever it is, it can't murder us all at once. You know this."

Morgan nods. She does know it, even if it hasn't been asserted until now. It makes sense, and she's noticed it more than once through this nightmare. Confident in her convictions, which are actually his, she follows Thorne's instructions, hefting Lawson's thick ankles against her side. They carry him to the airlock bay in silence… except for that odd stutter of humming wetness that reverberates from Thorne's chest into the cruel walls of the ship. The engine's drone can't contend with the damp racket, but matters are too close to being finished to question something as innocuous as a noise.

"Set him down here."

Morgan does as she's told, shifting away from a twitching Lawson as he begins to come around from the blood loss and the shock. By the time their purple-hued crewmate struggles to his elbows - visor trained on both her and Thorne on the other side of the decontamination room - it's too late.

Thorne punches the button on the airlock panel with as little hesitation as she'd observe in a psychopath. The dense, alloy-sturdy doors slam shut, fizzing as the pressure stabilizes. Behind her own helmet, Morgan's eyes water as Lawson starts to realize what's happening. Hindered by the slop of his own red blood, he clambers to get to his knees. She watches his attempts to slither towards them… crawl away from the other side where there's nothing but vacant space eager to absorb moisture from each and every pore in his core.

Morgan curls her fingers into twin fists, reminding herself of Thorne's words to convince her this is the right choice. They've all talked about venting whoever was most suspicious after discovering a fresh new corpse, but this feels worse than that because it is worse than that. Rooted in her heart, it feels wrong. This is wrong. She still doesn't know where Porter and Woods are, or if they're still alive. Yet, Thorne seems so sure. He must know something she doesn't.

"Close your eyes," he growls in warning, voice so thick with that unnamable essence that Morgan actually shuts her eyes, sinking into the role of someone incapable of seeing a man die in the vacuum of space. As if what she's seen in the past forty-eight hours hasn't been worse than this. 

There's no actual noise when Thorne sends Lawson into the cold nothingness of the cosmos, but there's a vast void felt in her spatial awareness. 

As soon as the airlock doors hiss back open, a sense of doom hovers over her shoulders. A humid rumbling comes from Thorne, rising above the ship's ever-present static - rising even above her own thudding heart. Morgan doesn't need to open her eyes to realize how grave a mistake she's made, neither does she need to feel ashamed of herself because there won't be much left of her in a few seconds. However, as her heartbeat contracts, releases, and squeezes - upper and lower chamber nearly stepping over the other - nothing happens except the steady rise of that unruffled, rotten racket.

A yawning humidity warms through her bleach-white space suit, past protective thermal linings, and the SkNSuit farther under that. Vapor rises within as the mechanisms adhered to her skin work overtime, boiling off the terror sweat cascading out her pores. Eventually, she opens her eyes, half expecting Thorne to be standing before her with that razor covered in Lawson's blood, but all she observes are pockets of condensation beading down the inside of her visor.

Slowly, Morgan turns towards the alien hum.

Out of her vision corner, she sees bruised-purple meat wiggle, meshing with alcoves of darkness that the fluorescent lights won't reach. The tubular mass dribbles thick filmy strings as it twitches, seemingly pressing around the divots of molding and dead mechanisms. Morgan follows it with her eyes, shifting as she does until the organic tentaculum meets a gaping maw of palm-sized prongs, ruptured from shoulder to hip across Thorne's long torso. Smaller, sharper teeth crowd in around the massive, undulant tongue, framing the pale bulk like petals around a flower's ovary. Some of them twitch as if attached to sentient ligaments and muscle systems. 

"Thorne..." Morgan murmurs, petrified by this tormenting visage. 

Betrayal has been the main course of the day, and night depending on the time. She doesn't dare glance at her wrist right now, but it feels like weeks since she's slept and even longer since she's felt anything but paranoia, except - except when he came to her… reminding her that even the most tumultuous moment in life can allow for brief moments of pleasure. Now, the fruits of all the crews arguing - all their thrown accusations - have ripened. Fermentation begins as she tries desperately to escape within herself, thinking her suit might shield her from what's about to happen.

**"It's… just… you…"** the imposter clicks wetly as its tongue bleeds saliva like a wrung rag of slime,  **"... and… me."**

Morgan gazes through Thorne and wonders how she never realized it before now. He's not who she thought, and he never was, not even when he was finger fucking her into madness. It was never about his personal satisfaction or even her own. Morgan understands that now. That was meant to dull her suspicions or possibly keep her from discovering whoever it was he'd just devoured. And it worked. It worked too well. Even now, she's drenched with desire and fear over the wanting - fear of hell and misery. 

"Thorne," she whispers again.

That mucus-coated organ of a tongue shudders at the sound of his surname. It's been squirming around beneath his black uniform since the beginning. Now it's bouncing with thirst and hunger throughout the small confines of Airlock… where both of them threw poor, innocent Lawson to his doom. What was he thinking in his final seconds? Probably cursing her for being so gullible. Only a fool thinks with their cunt and now look where that's gotten her.

**"Calm… down…"** the imposter buzzes like a baritone whisper set on fire,  **"... I want… I need… to taste… you…"**

**"Morrr'gah'nnnn** **_…_ ** **"**

She attempts to rush past him despite how his form obstructs the corridor. Fighting back is futile too, but she does anyway. His hands cinch her arms, crushing possessively until she yelps in pain, actually relaxing around her bones, as if the imposter cares.

Thorne twists them both around as his fat, slippery tongue drags across the room, knocking storage boxes and crushed scrap cubes to the floor in a deafening clatter. Violent shrieks of cosmic horror fill her ears as she's thrown out into Storage. The low gravitational pull causes her to bounce once, then twice across the floor, like a pebble over water, only for his tongue to yawn towards her, encircling her waist before she slams into the opposing wall.

Morgan erupts in pointless screams, lured into a gaping chasm of unfolded teeth. Her lower half is drawn into what used to be Thorne's abdominal cavity, arms held tight to her ribs by mighty, merciful hands. Sharp points pierce through rubber fingertips to catch in her suit's front seam then, with a rip of sound, rend it open. Tatters of white triple-woven canvas dangle off her body as his tongue unknots from her waist, slurping around a wide hip into the thin seam of her SkNSuit. Vile, spider-like claws slice the dragline material away from her breasts, just narrowly avoiding cutting her flesh to ribbons. That monstrous tongue wiggles against her unprotected skin, straining further downward to the juncture of her thighs. 

Thorne drew so much pleasure out of her earlier, and he does so again.

Now, instead of three masculine fingers, there's a flexible expanse of raised taste buds scraping hungrily upon her cunt, thrusting unevenly beneath her suit… teasing her throbbing entrance despite how hard she struggles. Morgan can't stop the moans from leaking inside her helmet - can't stop drooling as he licks decadent pleasure into her.

It's only the two of them left now…

**_"Sshhhh,"_ ** a human-like static whispers from his helmet. Thorne's coal-colored talons retract, putting away the threat of harm so he can squeeze and mold her breasts against her ribcage, tweaking sore nipples that fuel the revolting slide of his tongue along her cunt. 

Morgan trembles, unable to stop her hips from working down into the body-length tongue as it undulates back and forth, tasting her pussy as it drips and throbs. She soaks it as it does her, feeling every bump and raised bead across the wet mass. 

Teeth latch over her thighs and hips, holding her in place almost... gently…

**"Your crewmates were so tasty,"** he rattles inside the metal and the glass, mimicking that baritone that makes her swoon much more than it should,  **"but you… you're ambrosia… sweet and meaty. I knew you would be. That's why I saved you for last… forever mine."**

One of his palms abruptly slaps across her helmet. Black rubber gloves tack to the surface, quickly twisting it to the side, obscuring her vision. The release valve breaks. Another grunt and turn removes it. Instantaneously, fresh air floods into her helmet, and with it, all the smells of the ship: ether, musk, bleach, and blood. It's all their, swimming up her nose like a bouquet of erotic decomposition.

"... oh, fuck!" 

Clean, unimpeded words of delirious panic and pleasure echo into Storage as Morgan rides the imposter's tongue, inhaling everything because it's so much more vivid than her own recycled sweat. It devours her orgasm like a snack. The pleasure is weak, something she's unable to sag into as teeth carefully flutter around her body in tandem with an alien heartbeat racing between her shoulders. 

As Morgan unravels unpleasantly, her eyes roll back, gazing upwards. Her eyes gradually refocus on a stain of red behind Thorne's back, glossy visor. One giant, pulsating iris stares downward, narrowed in either hatred or enjoyment. The way his teeth hold her closer to let a large, stiff tongue probe deep inside her, says which one it is. 

Deep, reverberating snarls swirl behind his helmet. The sounds rival distant asteroids breaking apart against the ship's shields. The only thing close to matching his howls is Morgan's own piercing gasps as he fucks her with an alien tongue of absurd magnitude and dexterity. Yet… it's not brutal or violent. Thorne fucks her relatively softly as his palms sweep down her throat and chest, teasing her nipples into points. It almost reminds her of being taken from behind, like she's wanted him to for months now...

The similarity is enough that she's pulled into the act, rocking down onto his pumping tongue like it's his cock. Her insides clench, milk and slobber over his massive, twitching organ, drinking down every ounce she leaks. 

**"Delicious."**

Her face colors. Her skin burns - lusting for deeper and stronger and quicker. Morgan doesn't resist it anymore. There's no guilt left in her, as if some substance in the imposter's saliva anesthetizes that portion of her brain, leaving the simplistic longing to be devoured…

When she shudders to completion again, it's better than the hardest opioids... better than the fattest cock, better than nirvana. Everything contracts in preparation, only to drop into unstable tremors, beating pleasure from her core upwards into ever far-reaching nerves. Even her fingernails hum with it, turned as they are in the crook of Thorne's elbows, holding on as she's fucked dry.

Thorne thunders with satisfaction. Like someone finishing a bowl of melted ice cream, a sound resonates from both his helmet of swimming red and the mouth that's split open vertically across his torso. His teeth unhook. His tongue slides from her ripped SkNSuit, and without help, she slips from his jaws to the ground.

The cold and slightly damp floor of Storage meets her naked front and cheek - a gradual meeting of steel and skin rather than an unpleasant slap across the ground. Cooling temperatures invigorate overheated muscles, serving to dry all that oily sweat from her skin. Now that her SkNSuit is shredded much like her ivory decontamination suit, nothing evaporates the perspiration; all her layers do now is increase the stuffy, messy sensation of exhaustion… as well as the bliss pounding through her bones. 

**"Mor'gaaaahn…"**

Slowly - debilitated by  _ everything _ \- she rotates her head, straining to peer through drenched strands of hair to the imposter bowed above her.

Thorne's tongue flops to the ground - a fat, slippery wad of purple and raw taste buds, coating the floor in thick rivers of spit. That giant fissure of teeth is smaller now, sprouting out from a broad shoulder to the middle of his diaphragm. Below is a long tear in his licorice-colored suit, exposing a segmented section of blackened armor - oiled and abrasive-looking. Then, even further, lies what must be his cock…

Morgan looks at it with awe. It's the size of her arm and framed in a cluster of thorny teeth-like protrusions with ribbed tentacles snapping on either side of the alien mass. 

**"Don't... be afraid…"**

She'd laugh if that were plausible. Just watching as it slowly swells into a rigid erection is daunting enough without recognizing how sore the lining of her body already feels - a body that's as tired as it is drained.

"I'm not," she lies to him and herself, unable to even pick her head up off the floor. Morgan licks her lips, as thick strands of web-like oil dribble off a cockhead that looks like four merged into one. She's insane to feel anything but absolute unadulterated terror right now, yet, her heart hammers excitedly as the two tentacles that frame his cock curl and coil eagerly. 

**"... I will… be gentle…"**

Thorne's large iris glows hotly behind his tinted faceplate, proving that he will do as he pleases with her no matter what that thing between his legs does to her. All that's left is acceptance… 

… so, with this reality in mind, Morgan's lips twitch into a shy little smile, "I trust you, Thorne."

Because, honestly, what else is there to do but trust and take it?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. All typos are my own. If you have time, please let me know what you think. <3
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